Thoughts of a beautiful daughter

Her daddy was a foreigner, but what that meant she hardly knew.
Every time she talked to him, he taught her something new.

His skin, it had an olive glow, she found it rather nice.
But when others saw his thick, black beard, their heads all stuttered thrice.

She’d bring home her report card, and like a monkey he would be.
Eek! Eek! Eek! he’d always go, ever ecstatically.

He flapped his wings and looked rather funny, praising his daughter’s grades.
But this wasn’t a foreign thing he did, he just had silly ways.

When they’d finished sitting on the couch,
boosting her sweet spirit.
They’d venture to the kitchen
for a snack that matched her merit.

Lavash bread wrapped around tart feta, it was her favorite treat.
“For you, Lovey, for you my love, now here, come take a seat.”          

He told her stories she didn’t believe;
they could not be true.
Like that he’d read the dictionary,
over, through and through.

He showed her though, his bright red lines,
Underlining each new word.
“Who reads an English dictionary??”
She found this quite absurd.

“Well, me, of course” he would say, “for words are a delight
I wanted to learn this language, and I wanted to learn it right.”

“You’ve learned it right, daddy, you’ve learned it better than me.
Sometimes I think to myself, his English is better than mommy’s.”

Her mommy is an English major, her vocabulary tells you that.
But then sometimes she says a word and her pronunciation falls flat.

Her daddy, though, he speaks so clear; He has a thoughtful way.
There’s a furrow in his brow from thinking, “oh, just how to say?”

But he knows just how, which words to use. In fact, he is a poet.
He walks the woods, and spots a leaf, and through his words we know it.

The happy way it dances down, to you he will point out.
It hits the ground amidst its friends, lands lightly, doesn’t shout.

In the Spring, he’s more reflective. Persian New Year’s finally here!
Nowruz, it brings good tidings, lima beans and family cheer.

The beans are found within herb rice, grilled salmon lies on top.
There’s a potent noodle soup served too, but there Shirin must stop.

There’s a story Najmeddin will tell, it’s similar to this soup.
Well, maybe not. No, not really. But they both relate to poop.

There were two amigos, traveling for two nights and so two days.
Through the hot, hot desert, they were in a hazey haze.

Then one amigo’s nose twitched as it sniffed in something foul.
So he turned his head up to the sky and let out quite a howl.

“Amigo,” he then said, turning to his travel buddy.
“Did you poop your pants today? I smell something ugly.”

“No, not me,” his friend did say. “No, most certainly not.”
And so Amigo number one, with a headache he was fraught.

“Amigo,” he then said again, unable to ignore it.
“Did you poop your pants today? I won’t be angry for it.”

“No, not me,” his friend did say. “No, most certainly not.”
And so Amigo number one, with a headache was still fraught.

“Amigo,” he then said again, pleading for his life.
“Did you poop your pants today? I will not tell your wife.”

“My friend, I’ve said, I’ll say it again—No, not me, I’ve not.
I pooped in my pants yesterday. For that I may be sought.”

Her daddy at this story chuckled, or maybe more like cackled.
So did his daughter, at the joke, she grabbed his shirt and took hold.

She loved her daddy very much, she was a daddy’s girl.
She let him clean her fresh pierced ears and style every curl.

And though he’d get upset with her when he stepped on her toes,
She knew it was because he hated having hurt her so.

But other daddies feel this way, they love their daughters too.
Whether they’re foreign or domestic, the home’s a wild zoo.